History While Riding in Cars: Human Error OST 6
by Syberina5
Summary: Track 6 in a series of shorts inspired by music. -Hans Zimmer, Zoosters’ Breakout


-Hans Zimmer, _Zoosters' Breakout_

_History While Riding in Cars_

It was only a little blue Honda that got good mileage and was easy to park, even parallel park, but on days like this it was her Remington Steele-mobile. Sleeker and more agile than the lumbering SUVs about her, she dodged around them, finding her way through the mangling of traffic laws going on.

She didn't usually join in the daily fray but today was special. Today she needed to be on time, today she needed to be suave and beautiful, graceful and kind. And to achieve those things she needed to breakout the inner top secret agent spy within.

She felt sweaty and lame and overall unattractive which kept her stomach roiling, her skin jangling over her nerves. She had good reason to be nervous, according to her.

He was coming. And she hadn't seen him in four years.

The last time she'd seen him she was still in a magic/drug induced haze of falling-in-love perfection… four years ago. Needless to say it hadn't worked out. The time, the distance, their young libidos. It didn't matter but he had been the last guy with whom she felt unself-conscious enough to…. To do _those_ things.

He had meet her family; she'd introduced him even to her grandparents, her estranged or maybe just strange father, rather than just her roommates in passing as he walked out of her bedroom one morning.

He'd done likewise.

She still emailed his mother on occasion when a particularly interesting piece of music trivia came her way. Just a week ago it had been a quote from Billy Crystal about his grandmother to family friend of Louis Armstrong.

And a few days later Paul had emailed too. The first since he'd congratulated her on shiny new degree.

_Hey beautiful. I'm going to be out your way to see about a position at your alma mater. Want to do lunch?_

A few emails and phone calls later she was picking him up at the airport and taking him to his hotel, walking distance to campus. She'd agreed to give him the tour and all the faculty gossip she could remember but his being in Engineering where she'd been Animal Science and Biology meant a lot of her old connections wouldn't help him much with his interview. Should he get the job however, she could tell him all the best and worst places for coffee and beer on and off campus. Which is what she'd told him.

And he'd laughed that warm Paul laugh.

_Fuck._

She dodged the minivan changing lanes next to her—the driver likely too distracted by the bickering children or her phone conversation with her manicurist to realize someone was already in exactly the spot the van was attempting to inhabit. She popped out of gear, punched the brakes, and—once she was behind the oblivious van—cocked back into gear, slammed the gas and zinged off into the exit for the parkway leaving the majority of idiots to themselves.

Paul's mirth was still glistening around in her brain, the way it made her feel that day on the phone, the night they'd meet, the first time they'd had sex, the last time they'd had sex. Her insides always did the pleasant version of their current form of chaos. She still sung at Paul's laugh. Every little piece of her. The way she had on the dance floor the night they meet when he had twirled her perfectly without even asking. He'd just turned away from the group he was dancing near, smiled at her, and pulled her in and pushed her out before taking them into a delightful swing dance along with the DJ's change of records or CDs… or whatever DJs used these days.

And for three months they were physically or telephonically inseparable—much to her bill's chagrin.

She changed lanes to pass someone going the speed limit—pansy—and sighed.

She'd made just this drive the first time he'd come to stay with her. They had gone climbing in the mountains not from campus, the city. It began to rain while they were hiking and they laughed; Paul pulling her in closer, kissing a few dewy drops off her cheeks, kept her warm if not dry in the rain when he sunk into her lips. They hadn't even turned back to the car, each other all the sunshine they seemed to need.

They didn't even regret it when the heavens opened later to pour water over them like sweet tea over ice. Running through the torrent, hand in hand, up the trail to no point in particular smiling like fools rather than spitting like the drowned cats they were.

Finally they came to a trail post with a map and an outhouse and both dashed inside it. There they stood at first, laughing and kissing and slipping off each others slick bodies. Before long they were gasping in pleasure, the humor slipping into the heat.

She'd hauled in a deep breath, desperate for oxygen to steady her spinning head and moaned desperate to expel it. Paul'd stopped, concern on his face and when he saw hers, laughed. It smelled amazingly bad in their little hideaway. It was after all a latrine.

"If there's still enough blood going to your brain to notice how bad it smells in here I'm not doing this right." Paul shook his head and thrust her against the rough boards of the shed, bent his knees just enough so that their eyes were level, and looked merrily, mischievously, mercilessly into hers as his pressed her body there; the proximity of his own, the hardness and heat, the edgy intent of it in his eyes expelled the air from her lungs, the blood from her brain, and the thoughts from her head. The weight and friction between them as he—eyes still locked on hers—slowly stood to his full height made her shudder and reach out lips and teeth to pull him inside her. Her hands were a moment behind, her toes, only instants. And so he pressed harder, more heavily, firmly against her. She lifted a leg, the notch under her knee slipping over his hip, to get closer; heat needing heat. A hand drifted from her hair, her back, around her ass and under it, lifting it just further till she leapt with the other and wrapped booth around him.

This time when he moved his mouth from hers to latch on to the bit of her just below and behind her ear the gasp she gave tasted only of him, the groan was only from the thrilling of her blood to every spot he touched and those that yearned for more, harder contact.

She hadn't noticed the trees slowing down around her as she'd slipped into the moment in the shithouse, a moment consumed in ridiculous need. She was yanked out of it by the jangling vibration on her dash accompanied by a ring-tone Paul had programmed into her phone for himself years before. A romantic and passionate piano that slipped into a darkness she never suspected of him but found sometimes in his embraces. Shoving off the near-orgasmic memory and fumbling with the phone she dropped it into the foot-well and slowed further to dig it out safely. Finally speeding up, knowing she'd missed the call, she growled at her less than secret agent agility. But her cell dinged as Paul had sent her a message:

_Plane arrived early and have no luggage so will meet you at roadside pick up. Am wearing blue shirt._

She laid down her pedal and grumbled. Blue. Why did men always have to be so obtuse about color?

Paul's shirt it turned out was more of a navy, and more of a polo than the baby blue dress shirt she'd been expecting and didn't bring out his smile or shoulders nearly as well as her chosen outfit would have. He tossed his messenger and overnight bags into the back seat and slipped in greeting her cheerfully, eyes full of the warmth and laughter that she always felt when she thought of him.

She pulled quickly out into traffic again without, giving into the kiss he put on her cheek as she did or his grunt as he slapped back in the seat and brought down his seatbelt.

She felt his eyes on her as she carefully, deftly, speedily maneuvered through traffic, but could not bring herself to let hers meet them. She gave mono-syllabic replies to his questions and comments and made a show of checking her mirrors incessantly. She also switched in and out of gear more than necessary and hoped he hadn't gone back to driving stick-shifts since they had last discussed it. That way he might not notice she was creating busy work for herself. She eyed the other side of the parkway where the time of day had not only slowed but nearly stopped the flow of cars as they fled the city but created the bright lights that twinkled as she zipped past. They were almost calming.

She stole a look at Paul. His face was flashing by in the lights from the cars across the grassy knoll, looking out at the water. He'd gotten older but no less musingly inclined if the easy, thought-dazed expression on his face was any indication, his lips quirked up in just that second of looking at him.

Fucker somehow always knew. Always knew what she was thinking, feeling, just how anxious she was. No matter how long it had been between them, how little of her face he could see, how little of her voice he could hear. Like the day it had ended.

The day the falling in love had ended with a loud splattering thwack.

He'd called. Asked her about her, her family, her friends. Always had another question about her and since they hadn't spoken, not for more than a minute in the last week, she had plenty to say.

"What about you? What've you been up to this week?"

"It's been a great week. One of those amazing ones where you just can't believe the time has changed and yet it feels like you've lived years," he'd said sounding so much younger or at least less jaded than she.

"Wow," she struggled to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. "Sounds like quite a week. What happened to make it so exciting?" And part of her knew in that moment, as she had known the second day when he hadn't called—because he had called her at least twice a day, just as she had called him at least twice a day.

"I met someone." He took a deep breath, she heard it through the line. "Nick. He's great. You'd love him. We'd had a class together a couple of semesters ago but then he went on a study abroad to Kenya and interned with this amazing program there through Engineers Without Boarders and Starfish Africa. The things he's done just… You'd love him."

She'd been determined to keep how hurt she'd been to realize that this someone, this man who worked with engineers in Kenya, now had the two phone calls a day. Had his seven to ten text messages and three emails, numerous Facebook messages, and a few MySpace nudges.

And it wasn't like she could do anything about it. She couldn't be a girl and use her wile ways because nearly a thousand miles separated them.

This time, as she was lost in the memory, the anger and the hurt got her blood going in the opposite direction and she nipped and clipped through traffic handily, sharply. Her grip on the stick was brash and rough. Rather than release it completely she let her fingers trail over it, let her fist clench around the shaft.

But a series of red dots like strung Christmas lights ahead warned her that the day's traffic was finally catching up with her again. She popped back out of gear, cursing, and let the car coast. She tossed a stretched smile and an apology for the language at Paul and his eyes caught hers.

"I forgot what it's like to watch you drive stick."

She snorted, eyes back on the growing red lights. "Oh, and what's it like?"

"Pull into the scenic overlook," he said pointing at one of the many that dotted the parkway.

She complied, not really sure why and nervy for several reasons. One, because he was in her car. Two, because she was afraid what he'd see on her face if she really looked at him. Three, she was afraid what she'd see on his face if she really looked at him. Four, that he was going to drop some bomb while they were looking out over the river and into the city in what is usually a romantic spot. Five… she'd really rather not keep listing them. It only seemed to be emphasizing how many there really were.

She parked facing the water and the stonewall keeping them from driving into it.

"Breathe."

"Pardon," she said absently.

Paul laughed and she felt her chest pull. He reached over and took a fistful of her shirt and pulled her slowly over the gearshift and cup-holders.

"Breathe," he said. Which struck her as ironic because his actions were what was making it so difficult to suck in air in the first place. She watched his lips quirk, then smile. Then lost sight of them all together as she felt them getting closer, afraid to look like an idiot when he only kissed her cheek.

But he didn't. He sank into her lips like he always had.

And she whimpered. A sound she wanted to stuff back down in her throat and choke on.

He leaned back and she followed him until she caught herself and slipped on the middle console trying to move back into her seat.

He laughed. "You're always so awkward when you're nervous."

"You're not helping." She stared at the steering wheel, trying to think of something to do.

"You're not letting me." And there was so much laughter, so much glee in his voice she wanted to melt.

She knew what happened when she melted for Paul though. Everything goes swimmingly until suddenly it sucks. And the idea of facing that moment with him again made the melted parts of her pulse with beats of pain.

"I'm not doing it again Paul." She gripped the wheel. "I tried, it didn't work out. We all moved on. No redos."

"Who wants a redo?"

She twisted her hands on the wheel tighter and just as she moved to turn the key and jump back on the parkway he pulled them from the ignition and tossed them in the back seat.

"Mature Paul." She let herself glare at him, but not into his eyes. She still saw his face soften.

"I hurt you, I know. I was stupid to think that we could keep the distance just as emotional as it was physical until things played out."

"What distance? We talked constantly, through one major mode of communication or another. Welcome to the twenty-first century. The only distance there was showed up when you met Nick and avoided telling me for a week." She finally looked at him with no little amount of ridicule for his level of intelligence. "I'm not an idiot. I knew what was going on."

"I'm sorry," he said and that illusive darkness was in his eyes. Not anger or annoyance, possibly sorrow, but something murkier.

"Apology accepted," she said watching the mystery move through his face.

"I mean it, no redo. It'll be different this time."

"Ha. Why, because you're older and wiser?"

"No, this," he said and trailed the backside of his curled fingers against her cheek. "And this," he pulled their faces together and nudged her nose with his before he kissed her, slowly, tenderly, fusing the tingle in her cheek and her chest and spreading it into her fingers where they brushed against his arm, slipping into the short sleeve of his shirt and around his arm. His lips pressed harder against hers as her hand squeezed his bicep. "It's been four years. We still do that, that's why."

She felt the pleasure still moving through her turn painful on the edges and her lips pressed away the feeling of Paul's.

"You're here for three days."

"If I get this job I'll be here for a lot longer than that." He brushed his fingers over her face again, stroking her.

"If—" He kissed her, longer taking her away from the roadside, the nighttime, and the twinkling lights to the mountain and the rain and the question-less trance.

"Three days," Paul's breath moved across her lips. "Three days and then we both go to our separate corners and think about it."

Her logic wasn't submitting but her mouth was, and her hands, her arms, these little pieces of her heart that weren't listening to anything else.

It wasn't long before they were in the cramped back seat of her little Honda "looking for the keys."


End file.
